Prayer
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: Waiting in despair for Frodo to wake in Ithilien, Merry tries to pray.


PRAYER 

Gandalf cannot do a thing.  He sits with his head bowed, holding on to his staff as though he will crumble to the ground without its firm support.  My entreaties go unheeded.  "I have done all I can, Meriadoc," he murmurs without looking at me.  The defeat I hear in his voice sears me.  Gandalf, who had returned, renewed and stronger, after the fight against the Balrog, beaten?  I was with him when we stood in the shadows of Isengard, when his mere voice shattered Saruman.  Pippin has told me about the blinding light that shot from Gandalf's staff when he rode out in wrath to save Faramir.  And he flew on the eagles to get you and Sam out of the heaving and bleeding earth that was Mordor.   He is power and command, Gandalf.  And yet he does nothing now.  Nothing.  

Strider does all he can but it is not enough.  He sees to your wounds and those of Sam.  He holds Sam long in tearful embrace, whispering to him words I cannot catch—his voice gently urging.  Sam sighs softly as though the words comfort him. Then Strider turns to you and a shadow sweeps past his face, as though a mist has suddenly veiled the candles in the room.   Even then I can sense that he despairs and it is only with a blind faith that he tenderly cradles your head in his arm and bends to speak to you.  Yet if there is any hope for you it will be with Aragorn.  His touch freed me from the clutches of the dark dream that assailed me after I sank my blade on the monstrosity that threatened to kill the fair Eowyn.  He called me back from the world of shadows and mist and pain, and he saved me.  

The room smells strongly of herbs and potions, and surely together with Strider's, Aragorn's, _The King_'s hand, surely one of those phials or pots or jars can ease your suffering and lessen your exhaustion and bring you back from the darkness that holds you captive.  But nothing helps.  It was not enough.

I sit now by your side, watching your gaunt face, listening to your slow, ragged breath, your bandaged hand pressed to my chest.  

Come back, Frodo, I beg you.  It has all ended: the peril, the terror, the Ring.  You have done what you chose to do.  Come back now.

My eyes hurt from weeping and my back from sitting hunched by your bed, and Pippin's, and Sam's.   I have never felt this lonely in my life.  There were four of us leaving your little house in Crickhollow, on that foggy morning that seems like a dream now, all those long, wearying months ago.  I cannot go back alone, Frodo.  I cannot even imagine a life without you in it. 

My breath hitches painfully in my throat.  Please, Frodo, come back.  Don't let me be alone for long.

"Here Merry."  Legolas's voice comes softly beside me.  I turn and find him crouching by my side, holding a steaming bowl of soup.  "Have a little of this.  It is not wise to keep vigil on an empty stomach."

"Not now, Legolas," I croak weakly.  "I am not hungry."

He stares long at me, his eyes shady comfort and warm care.  "Frodo will wish you to regain your strength and be healed," he said.  

The knot in my throat unravels and my sobs ring bleak and hollow in the quiet tent.  I feel the hand of Legolas alighting on my shoulder and gently stroking me, his voice murmuring in Elvish.  Long moments pass before I finally wipe my left sleeve on my face, drained of all feelings.  

Legolas puts the bowl in my hand and I take the spoon.  He looks away as I struggle to eat with my convalescing hand.  He takes my place beside you and holds your hand, Frodo, and says something in Elvish.  His fingers touch your brow and he gazes into your face silently.

"What did you say to him?" I ask between mouthfuls of the tasteless soup.

"I was not speaking to him," he says, turning to look at me.  "It was a prayer."

"A prayer?"  I frown then look away.  The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.  I snort vehemently.  "What for?"

Legolas turns slightly to gaze at me with his ageless eyes.  "For Frodo to be shown the path that will lead him to the light, and for succour in his pain, and for peace in his trouble."

I very nearly spit the piece of chicken I am chewing.  "Trouble!" I say scornfully.  "To whom do you pray, Legolas?  The Valar?  The Lady of the Stars?  Don't you see that Frodo would never even have to be here, dying…."

My words sputter to a painful halt.  My eyes start to brim again with piercing tears, angry tears now, bitter tears.  "And Pippin, and Sam…  We would not be here; we would never have to bear this burden, this trouble of the whole western world, were it not for them, the powers you trust with your prayers!  Why should they listen to you and show any mercy and wisdom if they could not even see that this quest was beyond Frodo's endurance and strength to begin with?  Do you think they care about your puny little prayer when they did not even suffer qualms over dragging us from our home and hurling us against… against the Dark Lord none of you wise elves and mighty men could challenge?"

"Merry," Legolas speaks softly, reaching out to me.  "Do you not see that what has happened to Frodo, to you, has shown that your race could attain so much more than you ever thought you would?  Does it not tell you that there is much strength and resilience in your kind that could withstand the evil that no men nor elves could ever hope to battle?  You are a hero, Merry, and so is Frodo."

"I never wished to be a hero," I whisper.  "And Frodo shouldn't be one either.  He's a hobbit!  Don't you see that?  He's not made for swords and combat!  He knows his songs and tales and loves his meals.  He enjoys his walk and his books. He loves his friends dearly and is overly generous with them.  He…  He's my cousin.  He doesn't have to be a hero."

Legolas takes the half-eaten bowl of soup from my trembling hand and places it on the small table nearby.  He holds my hand and gently caresses my back as I sob brokenly.  

"What hope is there in prayers, Legolas?" I ask huskily.  "If there is none for Frodo, none for us."

"Did you give up hope, Merry, when the uruks took you and Pippin to Isengard?" says Legolas, his gentle eyes piercing me.  

I hang my head.  "Many times.  But Pippin was there.  For him, I kept my hopes alive."

The elf kneels before me so I can stare into his face without looking up.  "Do not give up on Frodo.  You refused to surrender then on the plains of Rohan.  Do not be defeated now, when the only darkness is the one in your heart."

"Can a prayer really help him?" I sob.  "What power does it hold?"

"A power of healing.  For him and for you."

"I don't know how to pray.  I don't know who to pray."

"Your heart knows."

***

They have given up.  I know it from the way they look at you, the resigned, pitying gaze they turn at you.  They look after you but they no longer believe you will return.  You are dead to them, Frodo.  

They say death is a mercy, a grace that will end all suffering.  It will be kinder if death should claim you in your sleep, they say, so you will not wake to the agony of not only your physical ruin, but also the devastation of your soul and your mind.  

But I cannot let you go, Frodo.  The more I try to think that death will be a blessing for one as tormented, as wasted and as ruined as you, the more I remember the way you laughed when I beat you at any one of our favorite games, the way your eyes shone when you proudly watched my first solo ride on my pony, the way you persuaded me with your steady voice to come down from the tree with you…  I cannot bear the thought of you dying, dead.  What should I do then?  Carry your remains back to the Shire?  Bury you?  Go on living?  I can't, Frodo, can't you see that?  I am too weak for that, too young.  I need you.  I know we will all die someday.  But not now, Frodo.  Please.  Don't leave me now.  

But what can I do when all the great healers Gondor can spare have resigned the hope of ever seeing you wake and return to life?  I am helpless in battle; I am even more useless now by your sickbed.   What should I do?  I am so used to having you to ask and to look up to.  I am all alone now; I have to find the answers myself.  I am not ready for that.  Not now.   

This is exhausting, this powerlessness.  I would rather ride to a thousand battles than wallow in this wretched state of bewilderment and frustration.  Only then I remember Legolas and his prayer.  Is that now the course that I must take?  Blind trust?  Naked hope?  

I stare numbly at your hand lying bandaged on the coverlet.  I take it gingerly, holding it in both of mine, and I start to pray.

"I never do this.  And I am walking blind here.  But I trust that You listen." I whisper, awkwardly and grudgingly at first, but afterward the words rush through me like a waterfall.  "And I have seen Your benevolence and mercy.  You saved him after Weathertop, you saved him in Moria.  You did not let him die in Mordor, you let him return to us.  Please save him now, for his sake and for mine.  I have only one hope and that is You.  Let him come back from the shadows, ease his pain, restore his health, and let us all come safely home."

I repeat this chant, feeling an absurd sense of peace in putting your fate in other Hands more powerful than mine, though doubt and despair continue to gnaw at my heart.  It seems laughable that my uncouth prayer should matter.  But I repeat it all the same, the words faltering on my lips, though in my heart they echo stridently, insistently, hopefully.

***

I watch the slight motion of your chest as you breathe, waiting and wondering if the next will ever come.  Aragorn sits beside me, and so does Gandalf, with Legolas and Gimli sitting not far away.  I know what it means.  They all think this is your last moments among us.  They all think that you shall not see the morning.  And I fear they may be right.

I hold your hand, bending over you, chanting my little prayer endlessly, my tears wetting your pale brow.  My words come in broken sobs and choked whispers, but still I cling to what little belief I hold of their virtue, that they will keep your heart beating, and your lungs breathing, and they will guide you away from darkness and lead you back to me.  

Should I have done it differently?  Should I say something other than my own selfish pleas?  Should put my lifetime happiness, my entire soul, my own life as an offering?  Should I, perhaps, start praying for myself, begging for strength to find life when you are gone, asking for the courage to accept your death with resignation and be glad over your release?  I don't know.  I don't know.  My world now is your face, thin and ravaged, before me, and the words of my prayer, now frantic and mechanical.

A long pause after your last intake of breath and I stop.

"Please, Frodo," I implore you hoarsely.  "Please, breathe."

Your exhalation comes in a soft whiff that caresses my cheek, and I realize that I am holding my own breath.

Oh, Frodo, am I doing the right thing?  I wish you to come back to me, but is that what you want for yourself?  Or do you desire relief from your pain in death?  Should I pray for a swift, tranquil passing for you, Frodo?  Is that what you wish me to do?  Or maybe my prayers are futile, as is everything.  Our fate is ordained and nothing we can do, nothing that I say, can ever alter it…

"…Please save him now, for his sake and for mine.  I have only one hope and that is You.  Let him come back from the shadows, ease his pain, restore his health…"

I cannot do this anymore, Frodo.  To hope and to watch that hope betrayed is too painful.  

My tears trickle onto your cheeks before sliding down to your pillow.  

Maybe it is time to bid you farewell, cousin dearest. 

I close my eyes as I lower my face to kiss you.

"…and let us all…"

It is so soft a whisper.

"…come safely home."

But the voice is yours.

I blink my tears away and watch you in utter disbelief.

Your eyes open slowly, but they are clear as they gaze at me, looking right into my eyes, so close in front of you.  And those eyes are the eyes of my cousin Frodo of old, glowing with infinite love.  "Hullo, Merry," you say softly.  Then I feel your parched lips touching my wet cheek, as you whisper, "Don't cry, love.  I am here."

~fin~

A/N:  I am fully aware that JRR Tolkien never specifically explained what sort of  divine beings the hobbits believed in.  In the book they never used the names of Elbereth or Eru except when they either remembered the Elves using them or when they felt the names "put" into their mouths.  That is why I do not use them in Merry's prayer and Merry—strictly speaking—was praying to a Divine Being he only vaguely recognized.  I am not at all pious and am not trying to get any religious messages across, but the idea was a powerfully compelling one and would not leave me alone until I wrote it down.  Call that divine intervention J .


End file.
